


Resemblance

by TitanSteam



Series: Zombies Have Feelings too, You Know [1]
Category: Dying Light (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fever, Fever Dreams, Memories, Mentions of Sex, Original Character(s), Rating May Change, Remembering a life long gone, Semi-sentient Demolisher, Sentient zombies, Slow.. Build???, Survivors and bad people, Unnamed characters (for now?), Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-12-08 23:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11656962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TitanSteam/pseuds/TitanSteam
Summary: These fever dreams come and go, but they have never seemed so real.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I might make this more than one chapter, but I'm not sure yet. Stay tuned and enjoy!

It was just on the edge of his senses. A soft touch, the lingering warmth of a soft bed, an image. A face. He reached out. He craved to feel her again, to hold her in his arms. 

Her skin glowed with the gentle morning light streaming in through the window, soft shadows cascading over soft features, a halo of light forming through downy brown hair. 

He could see a tired smile creep onto her blurry face as her hand reached up to touch his cheek. 

He couldn’t feel her fingertips. 

Her brows pinched together in concern, a question rising from her mouth, a garbled sound replacing her voice. Desperate to respond, his vocal cords strained but the words were lodged tight in his throat. Her breath hitched with a flutter of her chest, a delicate hand rising to her mouth as the wispy trail of a tear slipped from her eye. 

He brought a shaking hand to her face, thumb rising to wipe at the trail. He stopped as he felt the moisture on his digit.   

Just as quickly as he felt it, it was gone in an instant. Replaced by blood-shot vision and the destruction in the street, the soft glow of the bedroom in his fever daze torn apart by a sound that made his eardrums vibrate. Another noisy survivor. 

On impulse, his rock like fingers dug into the equally as hard cement of the street, tugging a chunk out of the ground and hoisting it to his side. A deep growl erupted from his chest as he prepared to hurl the piece in his hands when the survivor suddenly whipped their head in his direction.

He caught the tiniest glimpse of wispy tears and downy brown hair. 

He dropped the mound in his hands. 

Startled by his presence, the survivor scrambled up the side of the closest building and disappeared from his view.

His hands were shaking.   


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! Enjoy!

It was chaos day- the day that hell broke loose in the streets. The day they took the riot gear out of the storage. The day the package came. 

They told the men that by drinking the liquid, they would be able to walk among the infected. That statement was only partially true. 

The package came with over fifteen vials, accompanied by two men in white whose names he couldn't remember. It was a medicine, they said. A medicine that could keep you from turning- like a vaccine without the prick of a needle. They said it would help them get the job done. A job that they never got to. The men were to be given the medicine in the garage next to the station before heading out in the trucks.  

They never left the station. 

It started with the men of the smallest build, whose heights and weights were smaller than the other men. One of them collapsed behind one of the trucks, his feet kicking out under him from the force of his convulsions. A putrid foam dribbled from his mouth to the concrete floor. 

He could hear him choking, that poor kid. The men in white were nowhere to be seen. The men’s frantic voices filled the confined space as they scrambled for their weapons. Among the cocking of guns came a soft repetitive chiming.. but that wasn't quite right. It was more of a _ thump chime thump chime-  _ a vibration in his eardrums. 

He was no longer in the garage. In fact, he was in his confined arena-sized space. The sound of his pacing reverberated off the tall buildings, and with it, the soft chimes. It wasn't the trash littered around his feet, but rather, the long heavy chains that had snagged into his riot gear. It was a survivor’s futile attempt to contain him. He could feel it biting into his skin, into his flesh- pulling and tugging and  _ squelching.  _ Each drag of the chains sent a rippling pain whose source was more than one infected bleeding gash. 

It was always significantly worse when the chains got caught up in something- the skeleton of a car, the street barricades - leaving him in one tangled up spot. Time and time again would he have to restrain the urge to simply yank them and settle for clumsily undoing the knots. The blood didn’t make things any easier, it would coat his fingers and make them slippery, as if the sheer size of them compared to “tiny” knots wasn’t enough. 

He had learned to steer clear of the obstacles in his space and had pushed most of the debris to the middle. It gave him space to pace, such as he did before the chiming of his chains drew him from his daze. He wasn’t quite sure when he had stopped in his tracks when a roof tile fell and shattered next to his foot. The area grew eerily quiet, as though even the dead roaming the streets outside the barricades had stopped to listen. If he listened closely, he could hear feet on metal, as though someone was climbing down a ladder. 

He knows why they're here. In the middle of the courtyard is a crate filled with supplies and the life-saving suppressant. He has no use for these items, but survivors like the one approaching depend on it. How simple it would be to let them take the crate’s contents, but the scent, the sound, it stops him. He can’t describe the feeling- it fills his lungs, fills his head, and makes his blood boil. 

The steps came to a stop behind some trash bins at the edge of the arena and he can see the top of the survivor’s head. A rumbling begins in his chest and bubbles out of his mouth. Curse the chains around his neck, they prevent him from craning his head to see the survivor passed the mountain of rubble. He allows his feet to carry him around the obstacle, but he no longer sees the survivor behind the bins. From the rubble behind him comes a piercing whistle, one that almost seems to slice the air. With a painful turn of his head, he’s met with the shit-eating grin of the young male survivor. He’s never seen such an expression in his current predicament, but he quickly decides that he doesn't like it one bit. 

The heat in his blood seems almost hotter than the fever inflicted by the infection. He can't think, the scent of the survivor is almost clogging his lungs. He doesn't bother to fight this feeling anymore, the infection has long since won over his body and his thoughts. He allows his fingers to dig into the cement to hoist a chunk up to his side. He’s prepared to throw, but it's almost as though its what the survivor wants- he’s baring his teeth in a wide malicious smile. He hesitates, and it’s in this moment that he wishes he hadn't. 

The numerous chains in and on his body are suddenly pulled taut in different directions. The cement in his hands crumbles at his feet as he’s forced to his knees and more chains are added to his weight. He can feel feet upon his back and the cold bite of a chain slips under his helmet and around his neck. He’s forced onto his back and he can see them now. The survivor wasn’t alone- there had to be at least ten or fifteen of them. 

The chains are tugging and sliding as he thrashes in a panicked rage. Old wounds leak fresh blood onto the pavement around him- he can feel it seeping under his gear. They're kicking at his sides and stepping on his arms and legs. His head snaps to the side as he’s kicked in the head, but at least the chain around his throat is no longer on his windpipe. From his position, he can see the hunched figure of the survivor rummaging through the crate. A weak growl squeezes from his throat as a boot obstructs his sight. 

Said boot connected with his vizor harshly, the vibration against the glass sending a shockwave through his head. The second kick came with more power, a crack forming in the middle of the glass. The last kick sent glass shards into his skin as the hard rubber boot connected with the bridge of his nose. 

Then came darkness- it was the closest to sleep since he turned.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is concerned, I haven't abandoned "You Stupid Kid," but I think I'm going to focus on this for a little bit.


	3. Chapter 3

He remembers the morning he left. She had long since gotten out of bed, the afterglow of her warmth lingering in the covers strewn about. They faintly smelled of sex. She insisted to burn him into her memory, how could he resist? They didn’t know how long it would be before he returned. 

From the kitchen came an almost acidic bitter smell- perhaps she had burned the bacon again. It was something akin to rusting metal, a copper smell. It makes his stomach churn almost painfully, it couldn't be burnt bacon. 

He doesn't remember getting up, but he’s in the kitchen now, her back is facing him as she cooks something on the stove. He can't quite see the contents in the pan passed her form. He's losing his appetite, unsure if it's the scent or his planned 11 hour flight to Harran. His packed bags take up floor space and his paperwork is on the kitchen table. 

They had a heated discussion about his job opportunity a week prior among the bills piled on the couch. Her legs were bouncing, hands on her lap- she turned the promise ring on her middle finger over and over again. He can't remember the conversation, but perhaps he had tried to show her the benefit of his leave. They would finally have enough money to pay for their flat, pay off her student loans… 

And maybe get her a permanent ring, but he kept that thought to himself. He felt that it was the right thing to do, after all, they had been together for so long. But.. where will he draw the line between what was right and his obligations? Rather than dwell on this thought, he lets the smooth skin of her inner thigh under his fingertips distract him. 

He promised to keep in touch. 

He never did. 

There's pressure behind his eyes, a signal that the dream memory before him is now coming to a close. He swears he can still feel the warmth of her thighs around his hips. Or maybe it's the heat from his fever trapped under the riot gear practically glued to his skin with blood and sweat. 

That must have been the source of the smell- the blood soaked chains restraining his body that have now crusted to a dark brown. How 15 men managed to restrain him in such a way let alone drag him to his current destination was beyond him.

Said destination may be a warehouse, but it was hard to tell beyond the blood in his eyes. Besides the shards of glass in his skin and a broken nose, he's surprised the men didn't smash his head open during their window of opportunity. He can't smell the blood or the metal anymore, good for his stomach but bad for his senses. No sense of smell makes him practically blind. 

 From somewhere in the room came a sudden kicking sound, a hard rubber boot on metal. Each kick grows in force until something caves in and falls to the concrete floor. The crash forces him to jolt, chains digging into festering wounds. To any passerby, he must have sounded like some kind of wounded animal- he might as well have been one. 

There’s a long stretch of silence then, the only sound being the cloudy huffs of breath leaving his mouth. He supposes he hadn't noticed it before, but beyond the adjacent brick wall is another room, and from that room is an orange crate. Perhaps it's the one from the arena, the very one whose lid is now opening ever so quietly. It couldn’t have been the men, there was no reason for them to sneak around him given his current predicament- perhaps this person wasn't supposed to be here. They're stealing. With his blurry eyesight, he can only see the figure rummage through the contents then close the lid softly. With the broken nose, he can't smell them. 

He knows they are not one of the dead ones, but he wasn't prepared for the absence of anger. No boiling blood, no hazy thoughts, no clouded vision even as the survivor approached in what could only be morbid curiosity. It’s a shared feeling. They inched toward his feet, their facial features slowly solidifying. His heart nearly jumps into his throat. 

At a distance, the resemblance is nearly uncanny, but it wasn't her. How could he have ever thought so? His heart settles at this thought. They do share some similarities, but there are plenty of difference between them. This one, her hair is a bit longer, jaw much sharper. Her skin is darker and dirtier after surviving under the harsh sun. And maybe, just maybe, this one is a little shorter. They are staring at each other. 

The morbid curiosity is clear on her face, infected don't stare at a potential meal- he can practically see her turning this over and over in her head.

From beyond the doorway comes the metallic screech of a door opening and the sound of men’s voices. Fear is present in her eyes but she is quick to scale the adjacent wall. He can’t crane his neck, but he hears her feet settle on a metal platform somewhere above his head. 

From the other room, boxes scrape across the floor, the men chatter casually, and multiple car engines are running. A rumble vibrates from his chest as two figures make themselves visible in the doorway. 

“Is this one ready?” one of them say as he strides over to him. 

“Yeah, he’s ready to be moved tomorrow” the other responds. 

By now, they're  both by his feet. He resisted the urge to lunge at them, as the blood in his wounds had already begun to dry. 

“Shouldn't we put something in his mouth so he doesn't bite while we get him into the truck?”

“If you really want to stick your fingers in its mouth, go ahead. Rais won't give a shit if you come back with less fingers. As long as we get this.. Thing.. To the pit, he’ll stay off our asses”. 

The pit? What the hell was the pit? And who the hell was Rais? 

The men simply checked the tightness of the chains and finished their inspection, weakened rumbles leaving his chest all the while. As they were leaving, one of them kicked his boot roughly, sending a ripple up his leg that made him snarl and his muscles tense.

The men chuckled as they slipped out the door, mentioning something about “anger” and “good use.” With that, the car doors shut and the warhouse door screeched to a close. It was quiet once again, but not for long. He almost forgot she was up there till her feet started padding across the platform and into the next room. It was probably best that she leave while she still had the chance before those thugs came back. Especially once they realize that the crate they took was empty. 

There's some rummaging coming from the room, boxes being pushed around and maybe a toolbox being opened. Could she not get out? Was she locked in? That didn't seem right, however. She came through the vents.  

He could see her figure in the doorway again, inching toward his feet with something in her hands. A large bolt cutter. He knows exactly what she's going to do, he bares his teeth. She takes an audible breath and makes slow work of the chains. There are segments and chunks remaining in his flesh, but his limbs are slowly being freed. 

He must have sounded like a dying moose then and each ripple of nerve-destroyed flesh was like shaking water from thick hide. She winces after every jolt, putting more distance between her body and his as she works her way up. There’s one more chain- a thick neck cuff that is leaving welts in his skin. He struggles to get up but she scrambles away from him nonetheless.

He struggles to take a whiff through his damaged nose. Still nothing, but the infection is fighting with his brain. They're staring at each other again. It would be so easy to charge at her and crush her into the wall with his arm. He’s trembling in place, fresh blood dripping and old blood crumbling off like dust from a caving ceiling. She’s looking around the room now and knows her next move. She inches around him, hands at the ready to defend herself.

At the corner of the room is some kind of control box with an orange bulb at the top. All without breaking eye contact, she opens the box and hits a button. The sudden stream of light from the warehouse door opening nearly burns his eyes. She’s taking that opportunity to run passed him, making sure she’s close enough to catch his attention. Using the same bolt cutter she used on him, she runs to the locked gate surrounding the warehouse and makes quick work of the chains. 

She whistles softly at him. 

“Come come!” 

He’s not some damn dog. 

His legs wobble as he follows her lead, a pound of blood crust shedding from his body and the chain trailing behind him with the fresh blood. She stays in his range of sight from the rooftops of the slums and quickly pulls a radio from her pocket. 

“Tower, you’re not going to fucking believe this”.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it seems like these chapters are getting longer. Thanks for anyone who is still interested (if anyone is still interested). Feedback is greatly appreciated!! Let me know how I'm doing!!


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